A Tale of Two Christmases
by The ORIGINAL Corky
Summary: A heartwarming tale of a boy, his teddy bear and Santa Claus. It's 1930 and Mikhail McKenzie tells the tale of a very special Christmas he had nearly forty years before to the littlest of his lodgers at the Duane Street Lodging House. ::2 stories in 1::
1. Christmas Eve, 1930 Part I

**Disclaimer: I STILL do not own Newsies...gah! Aggravates me to no end. Oh well...one day...one day I will.**

**Author's note: Wrote this sort of as a last minute, second-thought deal for Dewey's Holidays With the Newsies Fan Fic contest. Wasn't originally going to and then thought, "Oh what the heck?" So I did. Special big shout-out thanks to my bestest beta Hair for checkin' things over for me and letting me know what needed to be fixed where and such. Here's hopin' for that $25 gift card this year!! LOL!! And if I don't win this year, well...at least ya's got another Christmas story out of me!! Hope you enjoy it and as always, may all your Christmases (or Holidays) be white!**

**~Corky  
**

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Chapter One: Christmas Eve, 1930

"Hey! That's mine! Give it back!"

"Baby Boy! Baby Boy! Has to sleep with his precious little teddy bear!"

A heated game of Keep Away erupted in the small common room. Two boys about eleven years old each, smiled viciously as they waved the love worn brown bear high above the head of the eight year old they were keeping it from. The little one had chased the older boys all the way down from his third floor bunk room, doing his best to keep the tears from rolling down his still chubby little cheeks. He'd silently hoped that with Christmas just around the corner, Knuckles and Bleeder would grant him a reprise from their daily torture. Boy! Had he ever been wrong.

"C'mon guys! Give it back! Please?"

"Aw, ain't that sweet? He even says 'please'!" Knuckles laughed, tossing the bear high into the air and letting his partner-in-crime catch it.

"He's just as sweet as sugar, ain't he? Better be careful theres kid, or your tears might just make ya melt!" Bleeder smirked as he ran further into the common room.

Though the building was old and dank, having barely survived two fires and more boys running up and down its stairs than anyone could remember, the Newsboys Lodging House on Duane Street held certain warmth in it that could not be matched. Of course, the windows were drafty, the floorboards were bitterly cold (especially in that harsh winter of 1930) and more than a few doors no longer met their frames. So long as a fire kept burning in the hearth and the sounds of kids and teens rough housing filled the air though, it was never completely cold. Despite the Stock Market Crash the previous October, the caretaker at Nine Duane Street had done his best to make sure his establishment was full of holiday cheer.

Most of the children living there at the time weren't newsies per se, though they would occasionally try their hand at selling a pape or two if they were out and about in need of a few cents; they were the children of out placed parents, unable to afford to properly care for their own flesh and blood anymore due to the lack of work the country was facing. It was going to be a hard Christmas for a lot of those kids. Many of them had never been away from their families for very long and now, on the holiday that was meant to be shared with loved ones, they had no one but themselves.

This was not the case for little eight year old Sebastian "Runt" Munroe. The boy with sparkling grey-blue eyes and a full head of curly blond hair had never known any other place to call home besides that lodging house. Runt had never met either of his parents that he could remember; everything he knew how to do he learned within those dingy walls. He understood that his sworn enemies, Knuckles and Bleeder, (who for whatever reasons had made it be known that they were not his friends within hours of arriving) were still hurt and upset that their parents had all but tossed them to the street earlier that year, and it didn't bother him…much. He was plenty used to that behavior, after all, they weren't the first to be abandoned by their parents and they certainly wouldn't be the last. What bothered him was the way they acted towards everyone who ever tried to help them.

Knuckles and Bleeder laughed wickedly as they continued to toss the bear back and forth between themselves. Their bright green eyes flashed with enjoyment as Runt tried not to cry. Teasing and taunting him had been their favorite passtime since arriving in that Godforsaken home. He was, after all, an easy enough target; gullible, naïve, sweet, polite; the complete opposite of themselves. There was a reason they'd earned their nicknames, and it wasn't for helping little old ladies cross the street either. Nearly a head and a half taller than Runt, they relished in the fact that the sweet faced little boy was all but terrified of them. Who wouldn't be? Their wild red-orange hair stuck up in every direction as if it had never been combed, their eyes were the color of fresh spring grass with freckles completely splattering their faces, and their laughs sounded like a pack of squealing, rabid hyenas.

"Hey, Bleeder! Toss me that stupid bear!" Knuckles called as he leapt onto the rickety old sofa.

Tossing his twin the bear, Bleeder laughed once more as he pushed his hand against Runt's forehead, sending him tumbling to the floor, knocking his shoulder hard against the tiny table in front of the sofa.

"What'cha gonna do now, Baby Boy? Cry?"

"Heh, prob'ly! He still believes in Santa, ya know."

Runt felt his lip start to tremble as he rubbed his shoulder. So what if he still believed? There were worse things in the world than holding onto one tiny shred of hope, wasn't there? Standing back up, the little boy wiped his nose with his sleeve before looking back at the Terror Twins.

"Ya know Santa ain't real, right?" Bleeder asked as he moved to stand by the fireplace, attempting to warm his hands by the flames.

"Yeah, he's just some story the stores made up ta make people buy stuff. It's all a load of hooey, this whole Christmas junk. If Santa were real, then how comes Bleeder an' me never got anything we ever asked for?"

Pressing his lips together, Runt sniffled a few times before shrugging. "Because you've never been good a day in your life…and Santa only brings things to the good boys and girls."

Both older boys paused as they blinked at each other and then again at the little one before them. Thinking for a moment, both silently debating on how to best pummel him for that remark, they snarled. It was frightening to see them both acting as one in their actions. Runt knew that when they both started doing the same thing at the same exact time that he had just made a major mistake.

Gulping hard, he frantically searched for an escape route. He could run for the lobby, but they'd probably just catch him and slam him into the counter before he could get very far and if he went for the stairs they would corner him eventually and give him a good beating then. Bleeder was blocking the way to the front door now, while Knuckles had gotten down off the sofa and was circling behind him, taking his brothers place by the fireplace.

"You little bum, you're gonna regret that." Knuckles growled as he stepped closer to the dwindling fire, bear still in hand. Runt's eyes widened and his mouth went dry as he watched the older boy extend his arm to hold his beloved teddy over the flames.

"No! Please!" He cried, lunging forward to try and stop him. His arms suddenly getting grabbed and pulled behind his back, Runt's tears began to fall as Bleeder held him tightly, forcing him to watch as Knuckles dropped the bear onto the logs.

"Oops." Knuckles forced a fake look of sadness as he looked from the bear to the boy and back again. "I'm sorry, Baby boy…he must have slipped."

"What's goin' on in here? Bleeder, let Runt go! Knuckles, get away from the fireplace…I don't trust you." A voice suddenly filled the room from the archway, startling the three boys.

Quickly releasing Runt and turning around, Bleeder batted his lashes at the man before him and tried to play innocent while his brother jumped towards the window in an attempt to look angelic. Runt sniffled loudly as he ignored the man and moved for the fireplace. He had to get the bear back, it was the only thing he'd ever had his whole life and he wasn't about to part with it any time soon. He watched as the little worn feet slowly began to smolder and sizzle, its large button eyes staring at him pleadingly.

"Evenin' Mr. McKenzie. We wasn't doin' anything, just spendin' some time with Runt here. Wasn't we, Runt?" Bleeder questioned, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.

"Yeah, just spendin' some time with him is all." His twin agreed, nodding his head quickly as he reached for Bleeder's arm. "C'mon Bleeder, let's get on upstairs an' make sure our space is in order."

Like a flash, the two boys bolted past the caretaker and up the stairs to their bunk room. Mr. McKenzie knew they wouldn't be straightening their bunk area up, if anything they'd be going to the third floor to make Runt's bedding "magically" disappear once again. Those two boys were going to be the death of him, he was sure.

Snapping from his thoughts, the middle aged man looked back to where Runt still stood, staring into the fire which was quickly beginning to pick up once again. It wasn't uncommon for the boy to get lost in thought as he gazed into the dancing reds, oranges and blues—though most times he was sitting or lying down in front of them, his head propped on the head of Hubert, his bear. Taking a few steps closer, he watched as the little boy suddenly lurched forward and reached towards the burning logs.

"Runt, what's the…whoa! Hey there! Don't go shovin' your hand…oh." Mr. McKenzie trailed off as he looked into the flames and saw the body and arms being engulfed in fire. Thinking quickly, he yanked his jacket off before reaching out for the bear. Catching him by an ear and quickly pulling him out, Mr. McKenzie was able to get Hubert onto the stone hearth away from anything that might catch fire before smothering the flames with his jacket. He'd never be able to wear that dull wool coat again, but at least he'd been able to save his favorite little lodger's only belonging before it was completely destroyed.

Runt stared down at the charred remains of his toy. The legs were completely gone, as was half the body; the arms singed and black, the smell of burning cotton and fabric rancid in the air. He could feel his whole body start to shake as he blinked back the tears once again threatening to roll down his cheeks. Mr. McKenzie had done his best to save him, and for that Runt was forever grateful, but in his heart he knew it would have almost been better to just let him burn away.

"Runt, hey buddy, I'm real sorry about this. I wish," Mr. McKenzie trailed off once more as he sighed and shook his head. Standing up, he placed the bear lovingly on the mantle, careful to prop him up so he didn't fall down and get kicked into the flames again by accident. Turning back to the little boy, he offered him a small smile as he rested his hands on Runt's tiny shoulders. He hated seeing the little one upset; it broke his heart in the worst way possible and stirred up old memories of his childhood, long ago buried deep inside him.

"Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I met Santa Claus?" He asked, one brown eyebrow quirking as a playful smirk itched at the corners of his mouth.

Runt sniffled again, once more using his sleeve for a handkerchief as he shook his head. "B-Bleeder an' K-Knuckles said…there's no s-such thing as S-Santa."

"Oh, c'mon now! What do they know? They just said that because they've never been good enough to know him." Mr. McKenzie smiled as he turned the young boy around and led him back towards the lobby. "C'mon, you help me decorate the tree I was able to get and I'll tell you all about it."

Runt followed Mr. McKenzie out the door and onto the bare street. Hardly anyone that year had decorated for the season; a few shops here or there offered specials on their holiday goods, and occasionally they'd find a house that still hung a wreath on the door with a bit of garland on the railing or on an awning, but nothing compared to what Runt had seen in the previous winters. How Mr. McKenzie had even been able to afford getting them a tree—even a tree as tiny as the one he'd gotten—Runt wasn't entirely sure.

The only thing to make it feel as if it were truly Christmas was the gentle snow fall that had been dropped on the city the night before. If the grey clouds above were any indication as to what the weather was going to be like, Runt felt sure that it was bound to start snowing again soon. He didn't mind it really; he rather enjoyed seeing the whole city blanketed in the softness. On nights when the sky was clear and the moon was full, he could look out his window and swear he could see all the way to New Jersey the snow made things so bright.

"You, you _really_ met Santa Claus? The _real_ Santa Claus?"

Smiling as he handed the boy a small bag of greens and cranberries, Mr. McKenzie nodded as he hoisted the tiny tree up onto his shoulder. Shooing Runt back into the lobby where it was warm, he quickly shut the door behind him and kicked the snow from his boots. He wasn't like Runt; he'd never enjoyed the winter, it was far too cold for his likings. Then again, many would argue that he didn't like the summer either because it was too hot, or the spring or fall because it was too rainy.

"You bet'cha I did. Here, go set those things in the common room and help me get this set up."

Waiting for the boy to return, Mr. McKenzie smiled as he thought back on that fateful night so many years before. His friends hadn't believed him; no one had believed him—with the possible exception of the caretaker at the time, old man Kloppman. At first it upset him that no one believed him. After awhile though, he'd decided it was fine by him, it was a secret he could call his own and no one could take it away from him. Though he'd put on a grouchy façade the whole year through, at Christmas time, he would always try to look on the upside of things.

Running back into the lobby, Runt smiled up at the man who'd become the closest thing to a father he'd ever known. Reaching for the little stand they'd used each year to hold the tree up in, the little boy bounced from foot to foot, momentarily forgetting his distress over his burned toy.

"What was he like? Did he look just like he did in the store pictures? Did you see his helpers and reindeer?"

Mr. McKenzie laughed as he nudged Runt along into the common room once more. Pointing out where the stand was to go that year, he rested the evergreen against the wall before moving to help with rearranging the room a bit. Rolling up the sleeves of his grey shirt and faded pink long underwear, he couldn't help but shake his head, his brown-with-silver-flecks hair falling down in front of his eyes.

"Slow down with the questions kid. Ya gonna let me tell the story or what?"

"So _tell it_ already then!!"

Smiling slightly, the man nodded to himself. "It happened way back when I was just a kid, not much older than you are now…"


	2. Christmas Eve, 1891

**Author's note: *German for Dummies*. I have a few words in here that are in German, so here ya go...a vocab lesson for ya's! These are just rough estimates of what they translate into. Freetranslation(dot)com does have its faults...but here ya go.  
**

**Ja = Yes**

**Nein = No**

**Mein = My (or) Mine (I believe anyways)  
**

**Fruend = Friend**

**Ja meine Lieb = Yes my love**

**Vielen Dank = Thank you**

**Schnell = Quickly  
**

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Chapter Two: December 24th, 1891

Skittery sighed heavily as he looked out the dirty window of the lodging house. His forehead pressed against the cool glass, the warmth from his body fogging it up around his little face. Staring out onto the street disdainfully, the nine-year-old frowned as he watched the drips fall onto the windowsill. The snow that had been on the ground earlier that week had melted away in an unseasonable warm-up causing dark mud to form in the gutters and puddles in the middle of the street. Not that he cared; he hated the snow anyways.

All around him, boys in every shape and size rushed about, laughing and horsing around as they prepared for the greatest holiday of them all. A man in his early to mid sixties did his best to corral them all, offering them each small tasks to get done before they went to bed that night. It seemed to work for some of the boys, while others still insisted on goofing around in the common room where Skittery sat sulking.

"Laddy, take Coal and Wander out to pick up the potatoes from Potter's produce stand. See if he has any squash while you're there. If he does, pick up two."

"Sure thin' Kloppy! Coal, Wander! Let's go." Laddy, who was at the time considered the leader of the lodging house since he was oldest and had been there the longest, smiled as he scooted the two younger boys out the door and out onto the street.

Skittery watched as they laughed with each other, continuing their roughhousing antics on the street while following closely behind the tall, lanky red head. Though he'd been there for nearly a month, Skittery hadn't bothered to make any attempt at making friends. Why should he bother? Everyone he ever got close to wound up leaving him in the end, so better to be broody and cranky to keep everyone away than to make friends and end up getting hurt.

"Hey watch out!!"

The call of warning came too late. As Skittery turned to see what was about to happen, a ball made of stretched leather connected squarely with his nose, instantly triggering a waterfall of blood. A younger boy with brown hair and glasses skidded to a halt as he stared at where his ball had stopped. He hadn't meant to hurt anyone with it; he'd just been so excited to find it that it sort of got away from him. Gulping and taking a step closer, the younger boy frowned.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean ta…are ya ok?" He asked timidly, bending down to pick the ball back up and tuck it securely under his arm.

"Do I look ok?" Skittery snarled, holding his sleeve under his nose in an attempt to make it stop bleeding. Oh how that hurt! Jumping up from his window seat, he jolted towards the boy. He'd show him. Even when he distanced himself from people they _still_ found a way of hurting him!

"Gimme that damned thing!"

"What? No! Hey that's mine!! Give it back!"

Skittery yanked the ball away from the lad, his own brown eyes pleading for its return. Reaching out for it, the two boys suddenly found themselves rolling across the common room floor, both struggling to hold onto the toy. Neither was going to let it go without a fight, and if that little pest wanted a fight, Skittery was more than ready to give it to him. Pounding his fist into the younger boys shoulder, Skittery rolled onto his stomach, tucking the ball between him and the floor.

It was that action alone that was the end of the poor old ball. Though neither boy weighed very much, it was the sudden pressure forced down on it that caused the age old seams to finally burst. The loud pop was enough to stop them both from wrestling and to bring Kloppman rushing in from his office.

"What's this…what…Skittery! You leave Specs alone! Get up, both of you." Grabbing hold of both boys by the back of their shirts, the older man stood them up and leveled them each with a disapproving look.

"He started it! Hit me in the face with that dumb ball." Skittery muttered. His nose still bleeding, the boy sniffled loudly, instantly regretting it as it sent a wave of pain up into his head. Not bothering to meet the man's gaze, he silently replaced his sleeve under his nose and stared down at the floor. This was it for him, he knew it. He'd be tossed onto the streets again for sure.

"I didn't mean ta! It was an accident! He's da one who broke it!" Specs cried, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Kloppman sighed as he looked them both over. He'd been the caretaker of that lodging house for more years than he cared to remember, so to say he was at all fazed by what had happened would be a lie. Shaking his head and slowly releasing them, he moved to the deflated remains of the ball and, with a groan of protest escaping his lips and from his back, stooped down to pick it up. He supposed he might be able to fix it, if he had the right material to do so, but since he didn't he moved to toss it out.

"I don't care who started it or who broke what, no fightin' tonight. If ya's keep fightin' then Sinterklaas won't bring you any presents." He called before moving back towards the kitchen to check on the ham he had roasting over the fire.

Specs wiped his nose and turned to look at Skittery, his eyes red from his tears as he sniffled.

"I really didn't mean ta hit ya," He said softly, ducking his head a little to try and meet the older boy's eyes, "It just sorta…got away from me. Is…uhm…is your nose alright? Maybe you should have Laddy look at it when he gets back, he's good with—"

"I'm fine! I don't need him to do anythin'!" Skittery snapped, looking up long enough to push the smaller boy away from him. He didn't dare admit how bad his nose actually hurt, or how upset he was that he'd accidentally broken the ball. He hadn't meant to pop it; he'd only wanted to take it away from Specs for awhile, maybe hope for him to forget about it so that _he_ could sneak off to play with it.

Squaring his shoulders and readjusting his glasses, Specs gave one last sniffle. It was Christmas Eve and he wasn't about to let the new boy spoil his fun, even if he had broken the only toy he was probably going to get that year. Besides, if he continued to fight like Skittery seemed to want to do, Santa wouldn't bring him any treats and he'd wind up with a lump of coal at the foot of his bed instead.

"Ok then," He said, giving a small nod as he folded his arms over his chest, "Don't sulk. Ya keep sulkin' an' Santa's not gonna bring you anythin'."

"There's no such thing as Santa, ya big baby. The old man in back's the one who gets everythin' and puts 'em out."

"Hey, shut your mouth, Skittery! You're just in a bad mood." Another boy said, noticing the look of hurt and dismay on Specs' face. Stepping forward, along with a few other older boys, the first placed his hand on the little boy's shoulder and offered Specs a kind smile.

"I'm not in a bad mood!"

"You're _always_ in a bad mood!" Specs shouted back, unaware of the older boy's presence. Narrowing his eyes behind the thin wire frames of his glasses, he clenched his jaw as he glared Skittery down. "I tried ta apologize an' I tried ta be your friend! But if you're just gonna mope then be that way!"

Skittery watched in bewilderment as Specs and the older boys turned and started up the stairs to the bunkroom. Why had Specs tried to be his friend? In the month since he'd arrived, Skittery had never once said one kind word to the boy, or anyone for that matter. Now as he stood alone in the common room, nose still bleeding, he felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach for trying to act like such a tough guy.

Hardening his heart towards them all again, the young boy turned on his worn heels and stormed out the front door. He didn't even bother with going to get his coat or hat, he just left. Out into the chilly streets, ignoring the falling temperature as he hurried from the lodging house, his hands stuffed into his brown trouser pockets. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care, he just knew he wanted to get as far away from that place as he could get. He could hear the faint sounds of organ music playing traditional church hymns of the time, and though he'd been to at least a couple of Christmas masses in his short life with his mother, Skittery was in no hurry to seek refuge within the church's warmth and compassion.

More than a couple of times, Skittery passed by grown men dressed in red suits and hats, ringing bells in an attempt to get people's attention. Even the Salvation Army had cashed in on the fakeness of Santa to try and get people to donate money*. Frowning as he ducked his head, the boy scooted by a few of them, his hand expertly reaching into the pail in hopes of snatching a few coins. He was poor too after all, and that money was meant to go to the poor, so by all rights he should have been able to take whatever he wanted. Tucking his hand back into his pocket, Skittery smirked proudly to himself as he scooted around the corner. In the few months he'd been living on his own, he'd become pretty decent at snatching things that weren't his without getting caught.

"Dumb old man, never noticed a thing." Smiling at his own good fortune, Skittery glanced back over his shoulder to make sure the Santa he'd just robbed from hadn't alerted any wandering officers and sent them chasing after him. Satisfied that he hadn't noticed a thing, he turned his head back around just as he walked into a solid body. Feeling his sore nose connect with a cold, hard button, Skittery yelped—part in surprise and part in pain—as he jumped back, a hand over his poor aching nose.

"That was not a very nice thing you did, there Skittery." A gentle voice said from above him. Slowly taking a few steps back, the boy gulped hard as he stared at the sidewalk. Starting at the worn brown shoes, he trailed his gaze up, over the tattered gray jacket, and finally landing on the aged face of the man he'd bumped into. His face was covered in a splattering of salt-and-pepper whiskers, not quite a full beard but certainly working its way towards that, and his gray-blue eyes looked out from under the two bushy caterpillar like eyebrows hidden behind his own pair of spectacles. Though he didn't look pleased with the boy, he in no way appeared to be an unpleasant person, not even with that deep frown etched onto his face. Skittery had met a number of bums who looked the same way and had been some of the nicest guys he'd ever met.

"I didn't—"

"Now, do you think you should go and return that money? That goes towards the families who are even more unfortunate than you are." The man said, his voice soft and gentle, with a very distinct German accent lacing every word. Placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, the man turned Skittery around and started walking him back towards the Santa he'd taken the money from.

He didn't know why he didn't put up a bigger fight with the man, or just pull away and go running—he was after all younger and surely faster than him, he could escape and the older gentleman would never catch him—but he didn't. For whatever reason, Skittery allowed himself to be led back to the very same Santa he'd robbed and placed in front of him. The man ringing the bell paused long enough to cast him a curious glance before checking his tin to make sure Skittery didn't have any friends there to run off with it while he was distracted. The few coins he'd lifted just moments before suddenly felt as heavy as a bag of rocks in his pocket.

His palms sweating and his mouth dry, Skittery pulled his clenched fist out of his trouser pocket and held it out to the man. He could feel the mysterious man's hand still resting heavily on his shoulder and his gaze locked down on him. The Santa in front of him watched wearily as the little boy slowly extended his hand and offered him back what he'd taken, money that could have bought him at least a whole months stay at the lodging house or a few really good meals at the delicatessen. Smiling and holding the tin out to him, the man dressed as St. Nick thanked him and his 'grandfather' for their donation, wishing them both a Merry Christmas and God Bless before going back to ringing his bell.

Giving Skittery's shoulder a gentle nudge, the man turned them around once again, this time starting off in the direction the boy had originally been going in. Keeping his hand on his shoulder, the man silently led them down the street. People didn't seem to notice them at all, as if they weren't really there to begin with, as they moved down through the crowds. Mothers or house-maids hurrying to get the last few things they needed to make a fine feast the next day, children laughing and playing—trying hard not to soil their Sunday best in the foul mud that seemed to be everywhere, early church-goers rushing to make it in time to find a place to sit. On the corner, a cluster of carolers sang out their joyful song, smiling brightly despite the bitter cold that was beginning to settle in.

"Where are we going?" Skittery finally asked as he realized they were getting farther and farther away from his lodging house.

"To get you in out of the cold for a little while and to have your nose looked at." The man answered. Skittery should have protested and demanded a better answer than that, but he didn't. It was as if the answer wasn't as important as he thought it should have been.

Finally arriving in a small gathering of homes, Skittery looked around as he realized they were in what must have been the 'upper middle class' section of town. The brick homes were narrow but at least three stories tall, each connected by a wall so that it was almost impossible to tell where one home started and the other stopped. Though they were already soiled with grime from the bustling city, every house appeared to be well cared for and some even had wreaths hanging from the doors.

Nestled in the middle of one of those rows was a much smaller home, not quite as kept as the others but still pleasant looking. Four candles twinkled inside, one placed in each window, beckoning weary travelers to their home for a warm meal and dry place to stay. On the door, in place of a wreath, hung a simple piece of wood, "Willkommen" --the German phrase for 'Welcome'-- carved expertly into it. Skittery had been around the city long enough to know that there was a certain social order to things, tiny communities within the city where all the Italians lived, the Chinese, even the Irish had their own area, and until he moved into the lodge he'd never seen any of those cultures intermingling. So it was strange to him to see an openly German home wedged into what he could only assume to be an English neighborhood.

He didn't have time to question the matter though; before he knew it, the man was guiding him up the short set of steps and into the cozy entryway. The scent of peppermint, cinnamon and hot baked apples filled air, instantly making the boy's mouth water and his stomach grumble as he looked around the tiny room quietly. Never in his life had he smelled anything quite so delicious before. A plate of gingersnaps sat on a tiny wooden table near the door, and Skittery found himself reaching for one before he could even think to stop himself.

The man with shaggy gray hair smiled down at the boy as he carefully removed his boots and overcoat. It was obvious Skittery was not used to being in a warm home by the way he seemed to shrink into himself as he slowly peeked into the two rooms adjacent to the entry room. Smiling softly, the man motioned for the boy to follow him into one of the rooms, calling out something in German that Skittery didn't quite understand. A moment later, a woman's voice responded, her own words sounding like nothing but gibberish to him before the clinking and clanking of pots sounded from a back room.

"Come, you sit here by the fire. Marta with be out in just a moment."

Skittery nodded as he moved to sit in the large red velvet chair the man motioned to. He was almost afraid to sit in such an ornate and beautiful seat, what with his filthy rags for clothes and ink-smudged fingers. Looking up for the man's approval one more time, he carefully and slowly climbed into the chair, amazed at how soft and warm it was against his thin, little body. Never in his life had he been in anything so comfortable, and something told him it would never happen again.

As he sat in the chair, his legs extended so that the bottoms of his holey shoes were exposed to the warmth of the fireplace, he silently wondered who Marta could be. A part of him hoped that she was a beautiful and fair-skinned young damsel who would fuss over him as she tended to his bloody nose, a young girl he might one day try to woo, while another part begged she was blind—no matter what age or how she looked—so that she wouldn't see the pathetic state he was in. His shoes had more holes in them than he could count, his trousers were quickly beginning to resemble knickers and were far dirtier than they should have been while his blue shirt was threadbare around the shoulders and completely gone in the elbows (not to mention the rather large, dark brown stain on his sleeve from where he tried to stop his nose from bleeding). The brown hair his mother had once worked so hard to make sure stayed trimmed and respectable looking was now starting to touch the bottom of his ears and stuck up in most every direction.

"Oh Nicolas, he is a handsome young man!"

Eyes going wide with surprise, Skittery leapt to his feet and spun around to face the person who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Feeling the gentle gaze of the elderly woman in front of him, Skittery shifted from foot to foot a bit uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the rug beneath his feet. There was something familiar about the pattern, something that the more he gazed at it the less self-conscious he became and the more he felt at home.

"My name is Marta, dear. And what is your name?" Her voice, like Nicolas', was thick with a German accent, but filled with such caring and concern that it wrapped around Skittery like a new wool coat and made him feel more at ease.

Looking up at her, he was somewhat glad she wasn't a young and beautiful damsel. Though he supposed she may have been at one point in time. Her long, gray hair was pulled up into a loose bun on the top of her head, a few strands falling down to frame her sweet, smiling, round face. Dressed in a simple gray gown, there was nothing to set her apart from any other working class woman he had ever met except for her sparkling blue eyes. Those eyes hardly seemed to belong on a woman her age—and what her age was, he wasn't rightly sure. When Skittery looked into those eyes, he swore he saw snowflakes glittering in the light.

"S-Skittery, ma'am." He answered softly, still transfixed by her eyes.

"Nein, I do not mean what the other boys call you. What did your mother call you?"

Normally such a question would have bristled the young boy. His mother was still a very touchy subject for him, one that brought on more pain and sadness than he wanted to feel. It was only that summer that she had gone to work at the cigarette factory and never returned home.

"Mikhail, my…my mother called me Mikhail." It was mostly true. Mikhail McKenzie had been the name given to him when he was born, though his mother rarely ever used his full first name. Skittery still wasn't sure why that question didn't bother him as much as it once did. When his mother didn't come home, he had hoped never to have to give his real name for any reason ever again. Mikhail was the name of the happy little boy who excelled in school and did whatever he could to make his single mother smile after a long day at work.

Marta smiled brightly, the snowflakes twinkling in her eyes again as she moved with amazing speed and agility for a woman of her size and age. Picking her glasses up off a sewing table and perching them carefully on the tip of her round, little nose, she turned back to Skittery. There was a certain quality about her that made Skittery think of her as the ideal grandmother. Though he had never met a grandmother –that he knew of anyways—he was sure that this woman was what they all strived to be like.

"Ja, there, see? That was not so hard, now was it?"

"Marta, let the boy be." Nicolas muttered shaking his head as he started out of the room again.

"Oh you…" Marta turned to shoot her husband a chiding look, waving him off with her hand and scoffing. Turning her attention back to Skittery, she smiled and leaned in close, a knowing glimmer in her crystal blue eyes, "You ignore Nicolas. He is just in bad mood."

"I am not in bad mood!" The older man called, his heavy footsteps sounding on the stairs as he moved to the second story of their little home.

Skittery felt his eyes go wide as he heard their exchange. Hadn't the same thing just been said to him back at the lodging house? Did they somehow know that the older boys had earlier that day accused him of being in a bad mood? If they did, how could they have found that out?

Opening his mouth to question it, he was quickly silenced as Marta turned her smiling face back to him once more.

"He is. He is just in bad mood because the snow, it is all gone today. He likes the snow." Smiling and giving him a little wink, the older woman tilted her head back so that she could see through the lenses of her glasses, still perched on the tip of her nose.

"Now…we see this nose of yours." Her soft, warm fingers touched his dirty chin, tilting it towards the light of the kerosene lamp on the table next to him. Humming softly to herself as she tilted his head gently in one direction, then the other, she nodded before standing up.

Skittery watched as she moved quickly out of the room, still humming happily. Taking the time to finally look around the room, he was surprised to see artifacts from almost every corner of the world carefully displayed throughout the room. Trinkets from Trinidad, baubles from Bolivia, knick-knacks from Korea and souvenirs from Sweden, objects that he thought could only be found in a mansion or museum were all there, right within his reach. How could they afford to have such wonderful things let alone be able to travel to all those places? He'd heard stories of sailors who had been to every country in the world (or so they claimed), had Nicolas been a sailor? Was that how he'd come to get all those things?

"My Nicolas, he is world traveler." Marta smiled as she stepped back into the sitting room, answering his questions before he could get them out. "Every year about this time, he travels the world. Those are gifts. He is a very liked man, my Nicolas."

Turning his head to look at the woman as she stepped up next to him again, this time holding a cloth and bowl of warm water, Skittery's mouth dropped in wonder.

"Is he a merchant sailor or somethin'?"

Suppressing a wide smile, Marta nodded as she looked down at the bowl. Dunking the cloth into the water and drawing it out once more, she rung it out before reaching out to gently dab at the dried blood crusted below his nose.

"Oh, you may call him that, ja. Now, you tell me why you are out on cold evening like this and not at home where it is warm, getting ready to celebrate Christmas."

Oh brother, not that nonsense again! Sighing heavily, Skittery sat back in the velvet chair, his eyes gazing into the fire as Marta worked to clean his face up. It was a simple enough question, but it was a question that he didn't want to answer. Maybe, he thought, if he just stared off into the fire and acted like he didn't hear her, she would forget she asked and bring up something else. Maybe offer him some of whatever smelt so good even.

"Your mama, she is worried about you, I am sure."

"I don't have a ma," the words stung his heart deeply as they left his mouth.

"Every little boy has a mama," Marta answered softly, her hands fluttering about quickly as she cleaned his face with the warm, wet cloth—not stopping just at the blood above his lip, but the smudges and lines of dirt wiped across his cheeks and forehead also, pausing just long enough to smooth down his unruly mop of hair and push the bangs off to one side of his brow. "Your nose is not broken, thankfully."

Scrunching his face a bit as she put the wash cloth back into the water, Skittery reached up to rub it gently before sniffling and shaking his head. He'd thought for sure Specs had busted it, if not with that stupid ball then with his blind punch he'd managed to get off on him before Kloppman came in to break them up. Sniffling one more time, he turned his attention back to the fireplace.

"I don't. My ma abandoned me."

"Hailey, Hailey, Hailey," Marta tsked, using the nickname his mother had so often lovingly called him. No one but he and his mother knew about that special name. Instead of making his heart twist with the pain that still plagued him whenever he thought of her, it made him suddenly feel as if his mother was there with him again. There was something about the way Marta said it. It wasn't in a scolding kind of way, or anything bad, but more like his own mother would when she didn't know how to answer him.

"No mother willingly abandons her baby. Your mother, she did not abandon you, believe me. She loved you, ja? Gave you clothes to wear, food to eat, milk to drink so that you grow to be strong young man. That does not sound like a mother who would abandon her child by choice." Sighing and standing back up again, Marta looked down at him. Giving a nod of approval, she turned to return the dish to the kitchen.

"You like apple pie, I bring you a slice." It hadn't been a question as to whether or not he liked apple pie; she knew he liked the pie. He didn't just like it, he loved it. His mother would bake it for him every Christmas; the apples were tart against the sweetness of the crust, cinnamon baked right into the dough and sprinkled on top was a generous helping of sugar. It was the only time during the year he was allowed such a delicious treat for the main fact it took his mother an entire year just to save the money to be able to buy what she needed in order to make it for him.

Marta returned almost as soon as she left, this time armed with a large cup of hot cocoa, a peppermint stick quickly melting inside, and one giant slice of still warm apple pie. Carefully setting the cup down on the table, she smiled sweetly as she handed him the plate. His eyes the size of saucers and his jaw practically hanging down to the ground, she couldn't help but laugh lightly at how sweet and innocent he appeared at that exact moment. It brought joy to her heart when she saw his look of disbelief as he took a bite of the pie.

Skittery didn't know how she did it, or how she knew, but somehow that woman, a perfect stranger, had managed to perfectly replicate his mother's recipe! Everything was exactly like hers, right down to the cinnamon being baked into the crust instead of with the apples. The taste of it alone was enough to bring a soft smile to his weary little face. Snuggling comfortably into the chair, he quickly lost himself in that slice of home and kindness.

"Marta?" Skittery asked around a forkful of pie, "Do you an' Nicolas have any kids?"

Marta, who had busied herself at her sewing table in the corner again, looked up and smiled brightly as she laughed. Nodding, she turned her attention back to the yarn that was in front of her. "Oh ja, we have many children. All the world over. And they have their own children. And their children have children."

"Man, you don't look old enough to have kids who have kids who have kids." He said, shaking his head in wonder as he shoved another forkful of the tasty desert into his mouth before taking a large gulp of cocoa to wash it down. "What's it like havin' that big of a family? How do you get gifts for 'em all?"

This time it was Nicolas who let out a great laugh. Skittery didn't know when or how he had managed to sneak in on them, he'd been watching the stairs the whole time almost. Perhaps they had a back set leading down into the kitchen like the Lodging House had. Deciding that must have been it, he turned to look at the man and blinked rapidly. No longer dressed like a common bum, Skittery could hardly believe it was the same man who made him return the coins and brought him in off the street. His salt-and-pepper whiskers were trimmed and groomed, his silver hair brushed and tucked securely under a crimson knitted cap and his plain, dingy brown and gray clothes had been traded in for a fine crimson velvet robe that reached nearly down to his black as night boots, a red silk sash keeping it tied around his waist. If Skittery didn't know any better, he'd say Nicolas looked almost exactly like Santa Claus. But there was no such person…was there?

"We are able to get by," Nicolas laughed as he moved to place his hand on Skittery's shoulder once again. "And you know what it is like to have a large family. You have a father and more brothers than a boy knows what to do with."

For the second time since he got there, Skittery opened his mouth to say something only to be cut off.

"Oh, ja they are not your family by blood, but they are your family. Kloppman, he takes good care of all his boys, and those boys, they would be your friends if you would let them. Don't you think it is time you opened your heart and let them in? No one could ever take the place of your mama, but if you let them, they all could make the pain a bit more bearable."

Skittery looked down at his empty plate, absentmindedly picked at the crumbs that were still left behind. He hated to admit that he had never thought about that. He had just been so hurt at thinking his own mother hadn't wanted him anymore and that she had run off on him that he hadn't seen that everyone at the Lodging House was trying to help him. They were all in the same position as he was, they knew and understood the pain and confusion he was going through. Giving a little sniffle, the boy reached up to wipe the back of his hand across his eyes.

Nicolas looked to Marta, his hand still resting on the little boy's shoulder. Deciding to let Skittery think about that for a time, he gave his wife a subtle nod. "Marta, it has begun to snow again. Have you seen my mittens?"

"Ja meine Lieb, they are on your trunk in the corner."

"Vielen Dank."

Nodding, Nicolas moved across the small room to where a large leather-strapped trunk sat in the corner. Skittery wiped at his eyes once more, forcing himself not to cry in front of the couple who had taken him in and been so kind to him even though he'd never met them before in his life. He watched as Nicolas picked his woolen mittens up off the trunk and began to turn back around before pausing, looking back at the trunk and bending down to open it. Straining to see what he was doing, Skittery bit his lip a little as he sat up a bit straighter in the chair.

"Ah!" Standing back up, the man turned to face Skittery once again, a small bundle in his arms. The glimmer in his gray-blue eyes didn't get by him, and the child knew that whatever was in that bundle was about to be handed over to him. "You are growing boy; you are too big for what you are wearing now. You need something you will grow into."

Eyes going wide again, Skittery looked at the bundle as Nicolas sat it on his lap. Wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine, it looked as if it had just been returned from the wash house that morning. Tearing into the paper like a madman, he felt his fingers pause as he blinked down at it. There in his lap was a pair of brown long pants, a brown vest and a white, button up shirt with hundreds of thin blue stripes running up and down it so that at a distance it almost appeared gray in color. Beneath all that was a single piece of light red long underwear. Never in his life had he owned long underwear! He'd always been jealous of the boys who had it as it seemed to help keep them warmer than just their slacks and shirts did.

"A-Are these…for me?"

"Ja, Ja those are for you. They are still big for you yet, but I am sure you will grow into them in no time." Nicolas nodded.

From her place at the sewing table, Marta gave a soft cough to get her husband's attention.

"Nicolas," She said softly, nodding down to Skittery's feet, his toes nearly completely exposed to the elements due to the holes.

Nodding, Nicolas moved into the entry room, returning just a moment later with the shoes he'd been wearing when he found the boy. Kneeling down next to him, Nicolas reached out to untie the worn out little boots Skittery had on, quickly replacing them with the roomy, warm and dry brown ones. He laughed softly as he felt around for the tips of Skittery's toes. Finding them not even half-way to the tips of the shoes, he nodded and smiled brightly.

"These shoes are going to last you a very long time, Skittery."

Skittery could not believe his eyes. Everything seemed too good to be true and he half expected to wake up anytime and find out it had all just been a fantastic dream. Gulping hard, he could do nothing more than simply stare down at the gifts he'd just been given. So what if it was all at least two sizes too big for it yet? He was going to wear them until they either fell apart or he grew out of them, which ever happened first!

"Now then…ah…well…Marta? Where did this come from? I have no use for ball." Nicolas sighed as he picked a ball up off the floor from behind the tiny sofa. Looking it over and bouncing it once or twice on the floor, Nicolas shook his head again and glanced to Skittery.

"Do you know anyone who would like a ball?"

He nodded, his cheeks flaring up in embarrassment. "Yeah…I do. Specs had a ball just like that this afternoon but I…well…it's what hit me in the nose, see? So I took it from him and…and I accidentally burst it."

Nodding, the man who had already given him so much, held the ball out to him. "You give this to him then. As a gift for Christmas. You tell him, you were given it by Santa Claus, to give to him."

"But…but I told him there wasn't a Santa, cuz…well cuz there isn't." Skittery looked between the two grandparent like people, suddenly feeling very unsure about what he'd just said. "Is…isn't there?"

Marta and Nicolas each exchanged a soft smile and sideways glance with each other before Marta stood up from her chair. The clock above the mantle just about to strike six o'clock, she tsked again as she shook her head. Moving over to Skittery, she placed a soft kiss atop his head before producing a sweater from behind her back—one that he was almost certain hadn't been in her hands when she stood up.

"You should be getting home, now little Hailey, before Kloppman worries himself to death. You wear this sweater, ja? So you do not catch cold. Come now, schnell, schnell! Nicolas is going to be late otherwise."

"Late for what? Hey! Late for what?"

"For my travels. Come, I will take you partway back to Duane Street." Nicolas reached for Skittery's hand just as Marta finished pulling the cozy blue sweater down over his head and arms. Making sure he had everything they had given him, Skittery looked around the sitting room one last time. He didn't want to leave! Everything was so bright and cheery there! Like a real home, he thought. His eyes meeting Marta's one last time before he was whisked into the entry room, Skittery knew for sure that there were snowflakes that were sparkling in her eyes.

Picking up four gingersnaps off the tiny wooden table by the door, Nicolas smiled down at Skittery and winked, his once 'bad mood' obviously replaced with a much jollier one, "I love ginger cookies." He whispered, handing two of them to the boy before scooting him out the door.

The snow had certainly begun to fall again. Though it wasn't a heavy snow, it was coming down quickly, blanketing the city in its fresh, bright whiteness. Candles flickered in the windows and from the street lamps, the fluffy flakes catching the light from time to time and seemed to hold the same sparkle that Marta's eyes held. The city that never seemed to sleep was quiet that night, save for the crunching of snow underfoot. It was almost eerie that everything was still and it was not yet six o'clock.

Skittery did his best to wrap his mind around everything that had happened in the short time he was gone. Nothing seemed to make sense, but at the same time, _everything_ made sense…and it confused him to no end. How had these people known so much about him, where he was from and what he had needed? Why had Nicolas been standing in that alley when Skittery ducked into it after stealing from that make believe Santa? How had Marta know how to make his mother's apple pie? And where had that darn ball just suddenly appear from?! Skittery had seen behind the sofa when he walked in, that ball wasn't there when he looked.

So caught up in his own thought, Skittery didn't even notice when he was starting back down Duane Street, heading off in the direction of the Newsboys Lodging House. A sudden gust of wind blew up around him, swirling the snow around his face and momentarily blinding him.

"Merry Christmas, Mikhail." He heard Nicolas' voice whisper into his ear just as the wind settled down again.

Spinning around in search of the man he'd just been walking with, Skittery's eyes widened as he realized he was suddenly in the middle of a crowd where a second ago there wasn't one. Nicolas was nowhere in sight. The boy spun in every direction, calling out for the man in hopes of finding him again. His face paling, Skittery looked down to make sure he was still holding the bundle, ball, and yes, he even still had the two gingersnap cookies clutched carefully in his grasp. Which had to have meant that Nicolas…

"Nah, he couldn't have. People don't just disappear into thin air…" Pausing long enough to raise his eyebrows and tilt his head a little to the side in thought, he quickly took off down the street in a full sprint.

Bursting into the lobby of Number Nine Duane Street Lodging House, Skittery tried to skid to a halt as he toppled into an unsuspecting Specs. His bundle of clothes flying all over, the pair landed in a tangled heap on the cold floor, Skittery still holding the ball tightly in his arms. Specs groaned and put a hand to his head as he used the other to shove the older boy off him, a crowd now forming around them to see if a fight was about to break out.

"Skittery? What's the mattah wit'cha? Get off me!" the younger boy demanded, blindly reaching out to find his glasses.

"Specs! Specs you're never going to believe this, I…I met…he…"

"Calm down, Skitts. Where'd you get all this stuff?" Laddy questioned, quickly picking the scattered clothes back up off the floor and placing them onto the ledger desk.

Waving him off, Skittery held the ball out to Specs and for the first time ever that any of them knew of and smiled from ear to ear. "Here! He wanted me to give you this!"

Specs eyed the ball skeptically, unsure whether or not he should take it. Glancing to the other boys who had circled around them, he slowly reached out for it, his fingers gingerly taking it from his grasp. "Who did?"

"Well…he said his name was Nicolas but…but I think he was Santa." He knew it sounded ridiculous, but if Specs had believed Santa was real when he left, then he should have still believed when he got back.

A few scattered snickers and laughs erupted among the boys as they shook their heads, pointed back to him and turned to wander off again. The kid had finally lost it. Specs stood there, holding the ball and blinking blankly at Skittery for a moment before shaking his head. Frowning, he looked down at the ball again.

"You said there wasn't a such thin' as Santa."

"I know what I said but…he's real! I met him! Hey! Don't laugh! I did! An' I went to his house an' his wife Marta made apple pie exactly like my mother used to! An' they gave me these clothes to wear when I grow into them an' these new shoes!"

Smiling and shaking his head, Laddy stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on the bewildered boy's shoulder. "Skitts, ya prob'ly met one of those new guys the Salvation Army has workin' for 'em. They dress unemployed fellas up as Santa to get donations. That's prob'ly who it was, someone workin' for 'em."

"What? No! He…hey, you guys don't believe me?"

The group of boys, some of which were still lightly laughing to themselves, shook their heads goodheartedly as they turned to go off in their own directions. Skittery stood in the middle of the lobby, slack jawed as he watched them all drift away. Even Specs, the boy who believed so adamantly that Santa existed, shook his head and wandered off, calling a thank you over his shoulder for the ball before disappearing into the back room to play with it. Blinking after them, Skittery looked to his right where Kloppman stood behind the ledger desk, a small, almost believing smile on his aging face.

"You…you believe me, don't ya Kloppman?"

Giving a small nod, the father like figure looked at the clothes the boy had been given before looking out at the still falling snow.

"Christmas is a time for magic, Skittery. Magic and family. Now come into the kitchen, I saved you a plate of dinner." Turning, Kloppman shuffled off to the kitchen, waving for the boy to follow him.

Skittery wasn't paying attention though. He'd gone back to his window seat, his forehead pressed against the cold glass; the warmth from his body fogging it around his little face. Staring out onto the street contently, the nine-year-old smiled as he watched the snow twinkle and sparkle its way back down to earth.

"Merry Christmas, mama. And Merry Christmas to you too…Santa."

* * *

*The tradition of using Santa as Salvation Army Bell Ringers began in the 1890's. Dressing unemployed men up as St. Nick, the Salvation Army hoped to gain people's attention and tug at their conscious' in order to get donations to go towards helping to feed the poor families of the time. A tradition that stands true today, nearly one hundred and twenty years later.


	3. Christmas Eve, 1930 Part II

Chapter Three: Christmas Eve, 1930 (Part Two)

Mr. McKenzie smiled softly as he looked at the little sofa next to the fireplace. Runt had long ago curled up under a spare wool blanket, his head resting lightly on the worn arm of the furniture. The poor boy hadn't even been able to make it completely through Skittery's tale of childhood wonderment. Smiling and shaking his head, the man—who had long since finally grown into the clothes and shoes he'd received that cold winters night—moved to put a few more logs on the fire before moving off to the kitchen. He'd let Runt sleep on the couch a bit longer before he'd carry the tiny boy back up to his bunk on the third floor.

Knuckles and Bleeder scrambled to make it back up the stairs without being seen. Quickly ducking back into their bunkroom, careful not to wake any of the other sleeping boys who had filtered by them while they sat quietly eavesdropping on the story being told downstairs, they stood with their ears pressed against the door.

After they had gotten back up the stairs earlier that day, they'd sat in the empty bunk room, silently mulling things over. They both missed their parents horribly and were still upset that, without even a word of comfort, their mother had sent them packing while their father had been out trying to find work. If only she would have let them, they could have helped to get by. They already had made quite a bit selling papers with the other boys, after all. The boys had gone back to their parents' meager apartment a few weeks after being sent away only to find it deserted. They really did abandon them, the boys thought mournfully as they shuffled back to the Lodging House.

Finally deciding to sneak back down the stairs, the Terror Twins sat huddled together on one of the lower steps, leaning forward and straining their ears to hear the story that was being told in the common room. It all sounded like nonsense to them when Mr. McKenzie started telling about it. A mysterious man just suddenly appearing in an empty alley? Really? Leave it to Runt to believe such a stupid story. They'd rolled their eyes as the little boy excitedly broke into the tale from time to time to ask a question or make a comment. How gullible could that kid actually be? By the end of his story though, both boys had to pick their jaws up off the floor as they looked to each other with wide, curious green eyes.

They listened intently as the sounds of Mr. McKenzie's boots crept up the stairs, careful to skip the thirteenth and fifteenth stairs that squeaked something horrible. He shuffled past their door; Runt snuggled in his arms, still wrapped in the wool blanket, and continued down the hall to the flight of stairs heading to the third floor. Knuckles thought he heard the clock downstairs chime eleven-thirty. The house was still, the only sounds were the protesting old stairs that groaned in agony as Skittery came back down from putting Runt to bed.

Knowing his next stop was to check on their bunk room, Bleeder whacked his brother's shoulder before diving into the nearest empty bunk, yanking the blanket up over his shoulders and closing his eyes. Following his twin's lead, Knuckles frantically searched for a bunk of his own. Mr. McKenzie was going to open their door any moment and would be less than pleased to find him standing in the middle of the room like some moonstruck calf. Shoving his brother over, the boy clamped his hand over the other's mouth as he pulled the blanket up over himself too.

Skittery slowly opened the door, just as the twin boys closed their eyes and began pretending to snore lightly. Making his way through the bunk room, he smiled as he thought back on all the happy years he spent sleeping in that very same room, surrounded by the boys he'd grown to consider as more than his friends. They'd been his brothers. Checking on some of the smaller boys, making sure they hadn't rolled out of bed and onto the cold floor, he turned and started back out of the room. They all looked so innocent when they were asleep, even Knuckles and Bleeder had their own angelic quality about them as they slumbered away all snuggled against each other to keep warm.

"Merry Christmas, fellas." He whispered as he gently closed the door and headed back down the stairs.

The twins waited until they heard the muffled _thunk_ of Mr. McKenzie's bedroom door shutting below their room. Careful as could be, they threw the blanket back and crept from their bunk. If this Santa guy really _was_ real like Mr. McKenzie had claimed he was, then they wanted to meet him for themselves! Quiet as a pair of mice, the two boys slipped down the stairs, their footsteps light as feathers as they moved along the wall. Knuckles put a finger to his lips as he motioned to the two stairs that were known to squeak when stepped on and very slowly stepped over them. Bleeder nodded in acknowledgment as he looked down at the stairs carefully. Overstepping, the boy's bare foot slipped off the fourteenth step and sent him sliding onto the thirteenth. Both boys froze in horror, their eyes wide as they frantically looked around the dark lobby, only the light from the dancing fire illuminating a small area of the room.

It was Knuckles' turn to whack his brother this time. Frowning and pointing to the stair, he glared at the twin for a moment before rolling his eyes and continuing down the stairs. Bleeder shrugged and mouthed an apology as he followed behind his mirror image. Together, the pair stepped off the bottom stair and carefully peeked around the corner into the common room. Nothing seemed to be any different. The fire was still lit in the fireplace, the meager tree sitting in the corner, decorated in blood red cranberries and candy canes. A large cup of hot cocoa—a single stick of peppermint poking out of the top—sat with a small plate of gingersnap cookies next to the sofa. A little note sat propped against the cup.

"Merry Christmas, Nicolas.  
~Mikhail."

The boys frowned at each other.

"Who's Mikhail?" Bleeder asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

"Didn't Mr. McKenzie say that was his real name?" Replied Knuckles as he carefully sat the note back down. Bleeder shrugged as he pressed the peppermint stick down into the cocoa, watching as it bobbed back up again almost immediately.

Frowning, Knuckles shook his head as he glanced up onto the mantle. Hubert, or rather what was left of him, still sat propped up, his cold, black, button eyes staring sadly back down at his tormentors. Knuckles felt his own stomach twist with guilt. He hadn't thought about it when he was doing it, he was just wanting to make someone hurt just as badly as he and his brother were. They didn't have anything except each other to remind them of their home. All Runt had was Hubert. Knuckles wasn't even sure if Runt knew where or how he'd gotten Hubert, only that he'd had him his whole life and it was the only thing that was his. Now, thanks to his and his brother's foolishness and anger, the little boy didn't even have that silly bear.

Knuckles sighed as he shook his head again; forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the sad state the bear was in. Looking back to the empty tree, he tapped his brother's arm and nodded for the stairs. Nothing was going to happen. They'd been right after all. There was no such person as Santa Claus.

Disappointed, the two quietly started back up the stairs. Their heads hung low, they sighed as one, their footsteps in perfect sync with each others. As they made their way partly up the stairs, the pair sighed as the clock began to strike midnight. Suddenly, their feet about to touch down on the fifth or sixth step, a gentle gust of wind blew through their hair, the scent of peppermint and cinnamon filling their senses. Stopping, they cast each other a sideways glance before peeking over their shoulders. The light from the common room's fireplace was gone, completely snuffed out. They thought they could hear a soft humming coming from the room. It sounded almost like the song their mother would sing to them every Christmas Eve.

"_Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. 'Glory to the newborn king. Peace on Earth, and mercy mild. God and sinner reconcile.' Joyful all ye nations rise. Join the triumph of the skies. With angelic host proclaim, 'Christ is born in Bethlehem' Hark! The Herald Angels sing 'Glory to the newborn king.'"_

Jaws falling open, the twin boys all but killed each other trying to get back down the stairs, each trying to make it back down into the common room first. Stumbling over their own feet and having to catch the wall to keep from toppling over, they both looked around the corner in wonderment. It couldn't be!

Dressed just as Mr. McKenzie had described was his long crimson velvet robe, the red silk sash tied around his waist and grey hair tucked snuggly under the crimson knit cap, Nicolas smiled and laughed lightly as he picked one of the cookies up off the plate and took a bite. Continuing to hum as he munched, the man carefully began setting little things out under the tree. Where any of it came from, the boys, who were spying around the corner, didn't have a clue. It just was suddenly there!

Turning his back to the boys again, Nicolas took another cookie off the plate before lifting the cup of cocoa to his lips. Smiling, he set the cup back down just as he eyes caught sight of Hubert perched on the mantle.

"Hubert? Mein Freund, what happened to you?" He asked, his German accent still just as thick as the day Skittery met him.

Knuckles felt his stomach drop as the man reached out and picked the bear up, careful not to let any of the stuffing fall out. Biting his lip, the boy looked to his brother before boldly stepping forward. He didn't know why he was doing it, but something told him he needed to step up and admit guilt to his horrible act.

"M-Mr. Claus? Uhm…N-Nicolas? I, I did that. I dropped him in the fire."

The man dressed all in red slowly turned, the bear still in his hands. Frowning, he careful placed the toy down on the sofa and squared his shoulders. "You, Matthew? You would drop mein Freund in the fire?"

Knuckles gulped as he nodded.

"Peter? You let him do this?" Nicolas asked, softly calling out for the twin who was still hidden in the shadows. A quiet shuffling sound came from the darkness before the other boy stepped up next to his brother, his hands behind his back and his head hung low in shame.

No one, not even their parents most times, could keep them straight it seemed. Mr. McKenzie had gotten lucky that afternoon when he caught them picking on Runt and called them by their newsie nicknames. Yet this man had known them instantly. Not by nickname but by their given names.

"Yes sir," Bleeder answered softly, his cheeks flaring up in embarrassment. "We're really sorry though. We just…I dunno why we did it."

"We were sad, and we thought if Runt wanted to be our friend then he should be as sad as us."

Nicolas stared at the pair for a moment, judging their sincerity cautiously. Finally nodding, he reached for the last two cookies and stepped forward. Santa never let a good child go without a gift.

"You both, you are good boys inside. If you were not, then you would not feel so badly for hurting another little one. You do as you are told now, ja? You let Sebastian be your Freund and you let him help you stop being sad." He instructed, placing a small round cookie in each of their palms.

"Now, you go to bed. It is late."

Dumbstruck, the boys nodded slowly as they quietly thanked him for the cookies. In the time it took for them to look at each other and give a little honest smile, that same gentle gust of peppermint and cinnamon scented air brushed against their cheeks and Nicolas was gone. The fire relit itself in the old brick fireplace and the boys were once again alone in the room. Eyes wide, they each looked around the room in confusion. He'd just been standing right there in front of them!

"Where'd he…"

"He just…"

Looking at each other and then at the sofa, their mouths slacked and hands dropped what was left of their cookies. Sitting on the rickety old sofa, looking better than new, was Hubert. His black eyes twinkled back at them as he sat propped against the arm, just waiting for the morning when his best friend would find him and hold him close once more.

"No…way…"

From his place in the archway, Skittery smirked. In the forty-years he'd been staying up to chat briefly with his old friend, the man who had once been in the same place as those boys, had yet to ever see Nicolas slip away. He supposed that was going to have to be one mystery about the man that was going to stay that way. Tugging the blanket from off his own shoulders, he moved towards the pair and wrapped it around them comfortingly.

"Christmas is a time for magic, boys. Magic…and if you'd let us, family." Skittery's voice was soft and gentle as he looked down at the two terrors that had been tormenting his lodging house for the past six months. They both looked up at him, their eyes not nearly as harsh and cold as before. Smiling, he patted their shoulders before leading them off towards the kitchen.

"C'mon fellas, I'll make ya's some hot cocoa."

_Fin._


End file.
